What More Can I Take?
by Sir NickolasJhonstonMarcus III
Summary: In a free Alagasia, Eragon has willingly vanished into the forests of Duweldenvarden. Thirty years, he's been gone. Follow Arya, a broken and tormented shell of her former self, as she races to find the love she had so wrongly bound and avoided. AxE
1. Chapter 1

Be aware, this is not a happy story, though I plan for it to have a happy ending.

I'm a freelance; a random writer, and a random poster. This is my first story in two years, and I believe it's good enough for all your prying eyes. This story is my writing, indeed; but the characters... they speak for themselves.  
>Slightly ooc Arya; tormented Eragon; dead Galbatorix. A<br>Enjoy!

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><p>The muted squeak of wood melted molded to the other sounds of the room. Quiet breathing, popping fire wood, grinding as wood met stone, and the massive thrumming breath of the sleeping dragon twisted and intersected in ways that only the one sitting in the room could bother to decipher.<p>

There was another gentle pop from the fire and the great sapphire dragon twitched, her vibrant blue scales reflecting purple shafts of flickering light from the fire.

The moon was just cresting above his home when he felt and heard a notorious sound coming from his pocket. He removed the walnut sized device and flicked the knob that would deactivate it. He clenched his teeth, as he struggled to contain the torrent of emotions that threatened to dissolve his fragile sanity.

This was a day of mourning. Mourning for his father Garrow, mourning for his father Brom, mourning for his Dwarven foster father Hrothgar, mourning for his brother Murtaugh, and mourning for his master and teacher Oromis.

The sapphire dragon raised her large head, surprising the man in his seat- for he hadn't known that she had woken- and touched his brow with her snout, nuzzling for a moment_. Happy day of Birth, Little one_.


	2. Chapter 2, The Day

Like I said, I update when I see fit. It's unpopular, I know, but it works for me, mm'k?  
>And thank you, YellowMouse, for your very kind review. 200 words isn't a lot, and I'm glad you were able to over look that to provide a quality review.<p>

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><p><strong><em>Previously:<em>**

_The sapphire dragon raised her large head, surprising the man in his seat- for he hadn't known that she had woken- and touched his brow with her snout, nuzzling for a moment. _Happy day of Birth, Little one.

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><p>He set the deactivated bauble aside, taking care not to damage it, and with a small hitching sigh, he stood, unable to contain his raging grief, and hugged his dragon fiercely around her top and lower jaws.<p>

His mouth opened, and his song of grief poured freely.

Saphira, settled her self deeper into the embrace, both physically and mentally and added her keening wail, to his dying groan.

And from the crying dragon stemmed a trickle of magic that gave their voices wings across Alagasiea.

**Arya:**

In the calm city of Elesmera, surrounded by the daunting, foreboding forests of Duweldenvarden, a dragons keen, and a man's groan of grief hailed from the far North West in uncharted forests. Green eyes, unwearied from their supposed slumber flashed open, and as the owner recognized the sound, she shuddered.

It had been thirty-two years to this date, that Eragon had slain the black king, Galbatorix, and every year, since that very day, _his birthday_, she would hear a report that she, and all others of her kin, knew by heart.

The grief of the last rider.

The grief of the last dragon.

The grief of two half-souls, lost and alone.

She lurched out of her sleeping chambers, dressed in whatever she could find and lurched out through the balcony, hitting the ground running.

Every year, she did this. Running in the direction of the mourning agony, whilst crying like a child, as the tormented sounds grew louder and more violent as she drew closer to it's epicenter. She wouldn't care for the scratches or deep bloody furrows caused by branches or thorns. She would just run. Trying to find him, with sound as her only guide; for he had not been seen in thirty years, and his whereabouts were unknown.

For thirty-one years she ran in search for Eragon Kingslayer.

For thirty-one years, she ran in vain. Returning to Elesmera tired, bloodied, gaunt, depressed, defeated, and alone.

So painfully excruciatingly alone. Thoughts of the last thirty years assaulted Arya's mind, as she dashed over thickets of thorns, vaulting through spaces between trees that would have been thought to be too slim for even an elf to navigate.

After she had been free of the city for more than an hour, her eye's rimmed with their yearly tears, not yet flowing over, but she dare not blink at all.

Arya had long cursed what she had done to Eragon, binding him under oath in the ancient language. Up until the death of the king, his oath had done exactly what she had wanted it to do. It kept him focused on the task at hand, and ultimately led to the death of the tyrant king.

She had not expected, however, that the very night of victory would be the night that Saphira would openly proclaim that she was kidnapping her rider far away, deep into the forests of Duweldenvarden.

By the time she found out, Eragon had already been spirited away.

Her errand, before she had discovered his absence from Nasuda, would have been to remove his bonds.

Her foolish act of binding him had driven him to feign escape against his will, his oath forced him to flee, now that the war was no longer a sizeable excuse to stay.

He faced down the dreaded king without so much as a second glance, but he fled for the sake of an oath to her?

Perhaps... she had been too convincing when she turned away his advances, and shunned his affections.

Arya gritted her teeth as the first bit of liquid spilled from her eyes, creating cold, slick trails on her face. Her breathing became tortured, and labored as she ran and silently sobbed.

What if she had been too convincing?

Her arm grazed a razor bush, one dagger-like thorn opening a minor gash. She paid it no mind. There was only one objective on this hunt.

What if he had done as she told him, and her pre-conceived notations about his stubborn nature had withered over time?

Her cries were now voiced, gentle whimpers echoing off the ancient foliage to torment her, alongside the howling of Eragon and Saphira.

What if fate had turned a cold eye on her now by switching her place with Eragon's; where she loves him, but instead of returning her feelings, he only assumes an impassive mask, and simply denies her by using her own argument against her.

_...Too young, too old..._

_...human, elf..._

_...rider, princess..._

If she found him, only to have her own words turned against her, she would beg for death at his hand. She would fancy her own demise before accepting that she had lost her second chance.

She wouldn't be able to blame him for it either. It was the last thing she had really asked of him before he had vanished. His final instruction that he promised to fulfill...

Arya's cries subsided, but her breathing had become hysterical, and the sounds of mourning still ground into her ears.

Would she be able to go back this year if she didn't find him? Could she cope with another year of coming home and being home, empty in more ways than one?

Would she return if he turned her away?

No.

She wouldn't have the strength to.

If she found that she had lost her second chance at love, and life, because of a selfless oath that turned out for the good of Alagaesia, her life would end; whether by her own hand or someone else's, it wouldn't matter then.

Arya couldn't breathe past the fissure that was her chest, and she couldn't swallow the lump in her throat. Her face, some of her hair, and the front of her upper garment was bathed in tears.

The tears she's saved for a year.


	3. Chapter 3, Tears of Fate

Haha! I feel like a million bucks today. I saw the four reviews in my inbox, and I have responses for all of them.

_**Sundablaka**_; There are no words for me to express my gratitue for your whole-hearted approval of my story. Thank you so very much, for your kind words and praise.

_**Metoochocolate**_; You have a good point, and this goes out to everyone; The oath I'm refering to is one that has not happened in the books. It happened in a different fan-fiction, and I saw so much screw-up potential, that I applied the concept to my own story. As it is, I will be writing a following story that shows the black oath being formed; and Eragon's subsequent dissaperance.

**_Unique Fantasiser_**; Do not frett, my friend. Eragon and Arya's troubles, although they have just begun, will not be so harsh for so long. Love is a strong chain, and is no easy thing to break. Just keep along and you shall find the eventual contentment and love that Eragon and Arya share.

**_ShadedWriterOfTheDarkness_**, **_Jits_**; This one's for you both. ;)

The next chapter I post will be much longer than this one.

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><p><strong><em>Previously:<em>**

_Arya couldn't breathe past the fissure that was her chest, and she couldn't swallow the lump in her throat. Her face, some of her hair, and the front of her upper garment was bathed in tears._

_The tears she's saved for a year._

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><p>Eragon's knees had buckled an hour into his grieving, but his arms were still solid around Saphira's muzzle. He groaned, with the sound of a man wishing for death, but he shed no tears, for he had none left. Saphira felt her riders distress and gave it a new voice as his distress became her own. She did not know that she could shed tears until an orb of water detached from her eye before splashing on the ground at Eragon's feet. She hadn't shed a single tear in years past, when they mourned for their dead loved ones, but she paid it no mind. If she could weep with liquid in a way that Eragon forbade himself to do, she would keep the ability close to her.<p>

But something was different this day.

The sky was crying too.

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><strong><em>Arya:<em>**

Thunder rolled in the distance, echoing in the endless forests, giving the black sound of Eragon and Saphira's mourning an even darker color. She realized how futile it was now, to continue searching. The sound pulled her toward the storm, and the storm would grievously slow her down.

Bitter, hot tears of anger replaced the ones shed for hopeless thoughts. Why would fate conspire against her this way? Last year she had almost reached him, almost located the alcove where he resided, before his mourning cut off suddenly, and she had been left stranded in the middle of the uncharted parts of Duweldenvarden.

No sound would be there to guide her back. Only the meager magic that she would be able to scrounge together would be enough to lead her home.

Arya did not believe she would have the energy to gather that kind of magic after today's journey, but she didn't care. If fate decided to torture her this way, then so be it. She would continue. She would be bloodied, beaten, and half dead if she actually found Eragon. _If_ she found him.

Her teeth clenched as she realized that she would pit her survival on this venture, but later, her jaw relaxed when she could think of no other honorable way to die.

Dying old and alone was too horrible of a possibility, but it seemed the most likely. She was already old, by human standards at least.

And she was alone...

But dying to fight that loneliness seemed as honorable as facing the late king Galbatorix. So she pressed on, cemented in her knowledge that she would either find him, or she would not live to see the next day, and began to brood once more on her actions, and

possible ways to ensure her trip to the void, should she fail.

Minutes into her thoughts, continuing her frantic pilgrimage, her face once-again ran a river of tears, and it was minutes before she realized that not all of the water on her face was on behalf of her crying.

She had entered the storm.


	4. Chapter 4 Unwanted, Unwelcome

Ah, my next chapter. Please pardon the wait; this week is the last week of school after all. I'm lucky to even have this window of time to post a chapter in.

Thank you for all your considerate reviews; I haven't the time to seek them out, but I will do so next chapter.

Grüß, Küß, Tchüß!

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><p>Eragon hadn't moved since his legs gave in to their cramped demands. Only the minor movements of his breathing gave the indication that he was, in some way, alive and awake. He lost his voice long ago, continuing to grieve until he spat blood, and finally ceased, but Saphira continued, crying for her rider's lost ability to mourn. He was still clinging to Saphira for dear life, as if he'd give up and float away if he let go.<p>

Then Saphira gave in, her cries dissipated; her energy gone, and she too slumped over on the ground in exhaustion, and groaned once, too tired to mourn any longer.

Arya had been drenched to the bone for the better part of an hour, not acknowledging her body's want to shiver. She was so close. The sound of mourning still sounded like the mourning of two, but whenever she tried to separate the sound, she was unable to do so. It made no difference to her, either. She ran now with a one track mind. Find the rider, find the one she had wronged. The mourning vibrated in her bones, making her teeth buzz, and fingers were going numb with the cold.

Her joints wanted to lock, but she could do no such thing. How could she? Especially when she was so close.

Her body vaulted over a pile of rocks, as she grabbed a low hanging branch in mid air to stabilize herself, and she landed roughly.

She was fatigued to a severe degree. It was hard enough dealing the the sound that she had to ward herself from, and the cold onset that stripped her of warmth, but she was wearing, and she knew it.

The forest had darkened as she pressed on through the rain, desperately trying to avoid the thinking that would unconsciously slow her. She couldn't afford to give into that kind of thinking now.

There was a waver in the sound that threw her, and her next vault was miss-timed, causing her to slip and sprawl along the bracken and mud of the forest floor. The cries began to wither, dying slowly; dissipating into a world of echoes and reports, and suddenly, wild desperation caused Arya to fling herself into the forest, trying to track down the last real sound: a tired groan from a dragon. Her heart rose in her throat with panic as the echoed cries dimmed and faltered, the staccato reports of the rain becoming more and more audible.

The water stung her face as she raced, ducking, darting, and dancing through the forest.

It took her a moment to realize all at once that that the sound was gone, now only bouncing off the odd tree, far in the distance, and as the silence of the storm engulfed her, so too did panic and despair.

In a deep spate it overwhelmed her, bringing it's implications along.

Because she had bound Eragon with an oath, he left when his 'task' was finished.

If she hadn't bound him, he would still be among the races today.

If she had gone with more haste, leaving sooner than she had, reaching Eragon before he left, she would be thriving in a paradise.

But there was always that small doubt. Why did he really leave?

Did he leave to hide? It was a possibility.

Or...did he leave because of what she had wrought? Did he leave because he was compelled to do so, or did he make a conscious, thought out decision to leave everything, her included, behind?

Would this insanity continue?

She knew it would, and it would drive her mad, for she would never have her answers.

She laughed once, now, coyly and viciously deprived of any emotion but shock. She failed again.

Leave it to Eragon to be this confounding. His cries were close. Closer than she had ever been before. It was visible, in the morose way the tree branches slumped, and how the flowers wilted.

Eragon mourned with nature; his only friend in this deep wilderness. Arya hated this. She hated the whole thing in all it's facets. One face of the jewel of pain hurt just as much as the next. Why could nature; this world mourn with him when it had never acknowledged her?

Her companion, Faolin, dead.

Her father, dead.

Oromis, dead.

Eragon... gone.

The last name, and the tag that went with it was certain, and she retched, only a pitifully meager liquid filling her mouth, and vomited. She hadn't eaten in so long, but she didn't care.

She didn't want anything any more.

Arya, the strong elven princess had broken. Why did fate deal her this hand? Why had Eragon left without so much as a 'good bye' ?

A streak of fire filled her chest and arms, and she cried out, not in pain, but in loss.

Eragon left.

Eragon left still in love. Eragon left _her_.

The thoughts as he asked Saphira to kidnap him away; that she would publicly announce it to all, didn't seem like him at all. The thought that he would just up and leave disturbed her. It wasn't like him abandon everyone. It wasn't like him at all.

His reasons must have been grave, or severely urgent for such a dramatic action.

Arya gave another small hysterical laugh, and falsely hoped that she had not been cause for such a traumatic decision.

_Eragon_, Saphira said, nudging him.

_I'm well awake, Saphira_, He replied, his throat too raw to speak. _What's wrong?_

A low growl sounded. _Someone is encroaching on our territory._

It wasn't the first time, and it certainly wasn't rare for a wanderer of the forests to find his home, nestled in a cleared area, especially during their day of mourning. Saphira massive draconic bulk would almost always give them the incentive to depart, and if they persisted, they were met with talons, teeth, and liquid fire as Saphira forced them to leave.

Eragon nodded once, curling up on the rug. _Give them a reason to never stray in our home again._

He sensed a vast surge of pleasure from his life partner and, with a guttural roar, managing on will alone, the sapphire dragon rose and left the small abode to confront the latest intruder.

Her legs throbbed with every step she took, her knee's threatening to buckle with each consecutive burden. She had been wandering for too long to count, now. It was dark, night pressing in like a putrid wall of black pitch. The rain continued to pour in invisible sheets, and what little heat the elven princess was able to hold in, was almost immediately stripped away.

She was nearly dead to the world, just focusing on one step following the other. The cold had robbed her senses, making her want to shiver, though a time ago... she abruptly felt warm again, and continued on.

It got harder then; she knew what was happening to her. The constant flaying of her body's non-existent heat had weakened her significantly, and her body was succumbing to the outside cold.

She stumbled once, in the dense forest, her foot catching painfully on an exposed root. There was a subtle crack when her body lacked the power to stop the fall so she could extricate her ankle, and fire engulfed her lower leg.

Her cry was small, shallow, and did not echo as she fell, face first , and the shattered bones in her ankle ground together, the sensation of the tiny fragments mixing with the tendons and mutilating her muscles making her regurgitate all of what was left inside her stomach.

She couldn't heal the bones or mend the flesh inside. She didn't have the energy, so she cried.

She shed bitter, sour tears that ran hot down her face, mixing with the cold rain; and her lungs gasped for air that promised to soothe some small part of her pain.

But some form of grim cheer entered her. She wouldn't have to live with the pain, the empty feelings, the _longing_. She would die, sometime soon, and be free.

But...

But what of Eragon?

What fate would befall him if she died?

She didn't think much further than that, because she knew very well what would happen.

Some part of him would die too.

Saphira's teeth bared in a savage mask made to frighten, as she sniffed out the intruder. This would be the fourteenth one in thirty years to invade her territory during her time of lamentation. Her tongue flashed out to taste the air, and gave her pause.

It was familiar...

This taste, different from her home of thirty years.

But still familiar...

She scented the air again, thick with the smell of wet earth, and little more than a trace of bleeding pine.

Bleeding pine?

She sniffed the air with more intent, drawing rain water into her snout with the thick wet air. The smell was stronger now, with scent of elf, mixed with pine and iron.

Her claws raked the ground and her scales stripped the trees of their bark, and she sniffed again.

Blood, and crushed pine mingled with the bitter tang of sweat and female fear. The scent was so similar to one she knew before, but with the tainting of the other scents, it didn't provoke the memories that associated the smell with a face.

As it was, the smell was still strange, unknown. Saphira growled loudly, a thick guttural report that sounded as if boulders were grinding together.

Then a sound, nearly camouflaged by the rain, amplified. A small, high pitched keen, followed by an even smaller whimper, pierced the staccato etude of rain.

The sound lead her to the offender, and when she saw the prone figure, she bugled, forcing the sound to come alive in her tired, bloodied throat, and sent for Eragon, while providing rain cover over the emerald-eyed elf with her wing.


	5. Chapter 5, Promises Kept

Okay, really; I have no excuse for my undeniable slothfull wait. I appologize, with more than just words; for I believe that this is the longest chapter I'll have posted.

For those of you who have reviewed; you are not forgotten. I plan for this story to have a happy ending, I promise; but we've only just entered the darkness before the dawn.

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><p>There was a time when Arya had lost coherency, and didn't know, or if she did, didn't care about the angered dragon approaching her. The fire in her ankle pounded in her head, making everything throb. She didn't care that the dragon had been exactly what she had set out for. She was only lucid enough to want the pain in her ankle to leave.<p>

Her body gave up then, when her ears seemed to cave inward to a sound louder than anything she had heard in the last thirty years.

Any further attempt at vocalizing her pain cut off, and she slumped to the ground, dead to the world.

When Arya had suddenly gone limp, Saphira probed her mind trying to ascertain if she was alive or...

No, she wasn't dead. Arya's mind had curled in on itself, the amount of sensation causing her to recoil into the depths of her innermost secret places.

Still worried that the frail elf would not last until Eragon could arrive, Saphira siphoned what energy she could spare into Emerald-eyes' body.

She could feel a sudden surge strength returning to her as Eragon drew from the massive reserves of Aren, and the belt of Beloth the Wise.

It was not long before she could see, through his eyes, that he was racing to defend her from whatever she had sent him for.

He was still oblivious to the identity of the intruder, not that it would matter. He would know. The very second his probing eyes found her, he would know.

Saphira nosed the black tresses away from the elf's face, and recoiled at what she saw.

The features were the same, but the skin was taught, drawn tightly over the bones. The neck so thin and weak.

Arya was emaciated, scarred, and so much worse looking than when Saphira had seen her thirty years before.

Why did she look…dead?

Saphira tried to ignore the creeping dread that made her scales ruffle. _If there is a reason for Emerald-eyes to look this way_, she prayed, _please don't let it be on our behalf_.

But try as she may to fend off the anxiety and creeping fear, she knew that Eragon's decision to leave would condemn them both.

I couldn't have imagined why Saphira had sent for me so urgently, but I didn't question why, I just ran. Standing nearly crippled me, and after drawing on the gem of Aren and the belt of Beloth the Wise, I set out. Raw energy was a poor replacement for true rest though, and my legs still burned with fatigue as I continued on.

The normally crunchy bramble had softened in the storm, making the ground soft and swamp like, squelching under my feet.

The rain stung my face as I dashed towards Saphira, thrown slightly by her melancholy feelings. Premeditated negative emotions, other than anger, were never seen in Saphira's day-to-day doings, or even in her nature as a dragon; so I was surprised to feel them now.

Just as I was about to inquire about her feelings, I found her, in the densely packed forest, with her wing extended across a pale, and frail body.

The trees around her were badly scarred, evidence that she had crammed her self into the space, and the hairs on the back of my neck prickled.

Oh little one...,

Said Saphira.

Eragon couldn't ignore the stone cold ball in his stomach as he was presented with the gaunt elf before him now, and he panicked for a moment; thinking that Saphira had killed the poor soul lying broken in the mud and bracken.

But the more that he saw through Saphira's eyes, the more he began to choke. The elf was female, haggard, gaunt, bloodied, and beaten.

Gaunt, and elf; two very conflicting words that, to be used together now seemed like a grievous misuse of language.

But it fit.

And it terrified him.

The pallid elf's shallow breathing frightened him more, and the ball in his stomach coiled tighter. The features were so similar, and he'd never seen any two elfs the same.

Who?

He asked, Saphira's dread piercing his thoughts.

She briefly touched her nose to the brow of the injured elf and thought, _You know who she is, Eragon._

There was no doubt. He knelt reverently next to the el...Arya... and began to carefully extricate her mangled foot from the twisted root. He felt the bile rise in his throat as he felt the texture of her bones. The thin feminine ankle bone had broken while under stress, causing it to fragment.

But it surprised him that the bone had broken at all. Her body, so frail now, must have been so for years, and the wear on her bones became too great, with her weight and force, twisting her when she fell...

It was a terrible, incapacitating injury.

He gently manipulated her limp foot and leg out from the thick, living wood, and plucked her from the ground like morning kindling.

Then he ran, bursting through the bramble and darting, keeping the fragile elf tight in his embrace, away from the razor thorns, and abrasive bark.

He drew energy from the multitudes of plants around him, to sustain his flying pace, and moved what stored energy in his belt and ring to the weathered elf. He made it to the clearing, and in moments, fumbled with the door latch, letting himself in, while precariously balancing the elf in his arms.

He bit his tongue as the door swung back, recoiling from being opened so quickly, gouging his heel and shoulder. He raced her to his own bed, across from Saphira's sleeping space, laid her down delicately, and began to heal her.

The injuries were not as deadly as her fallen temperature, and he left her for a moment to run a warm bath.

He returned to her, and rubbed her hands and the foot with the un-broken ankle, trying to restore the circulation and provide some small bit of warmth. As he worked, he also extended his mind to her, to see how far she had curled in on herself.

He was met with no resistance, and no greeting. The vast expanse of her mind was empty, in part; her conscious thoughts were hiding in her memories. He brushed against her innermost thoughts and was pulled in against his will.

Weeping.

Wailing.

Angst.

Depression.

I will never see him again.

She didn't acknowledge his presence in her mind.

I will suffer forever for saving Alagaesia, and he will suffer too.

The twisting razor edge of her thoughts gouged him as much as it did her.

Why? Of all the decisions I ever made, why did I bind him with those cursed words?

The mental sob caused Eragon to bite his tongue; he tasted blood.

Oh, Eragon... my friend...my love...why did you go? Why did you go?

Her sorrow crushed him momentarily, before the promise he had made to her severed his feelings. He should have been elated, over-joyed to know that the elf loved him as he had loved her...just as a time ago...

Now it made him feel old, tired, and submissive. This elf that he love... _had _loved still captivated and ruled him. He had no hope of running ever again. His promise would force him to reject her, and ignore her, but it would destroy him to leave her again.

Those thoughts were dangerous, so he tried to focus on rebuilding her ankle, and it was tedious work; gramyre spilling from his lips in twisted patterns that commanded bone to mend, and muscle to heal. He hadn't noticed Saphira there, until she nosed his shoulder when he had finished. There was little to be said.

Eragon hesitantly entered Arya's unconscious musings, once more. The emotional clamp he was under wouldn't bend as he saw the things, terrible things, that haunted Arya's mind. Her attempted suicide, five years after he left, did not break him as it should have...

But it scared him. It frightened him with the prospect of losing his one confident, his one friend that did not share his heart and mind as Saphira did.

Her yearly pilgrimage into the heart of Duweldenvarden made his neck tingle and prickle, as if his body was feeling the fire that magic would not allow him to acknowledge.

The knowledge of her barren life, seeing it through her eyes, lashed at his soul with chains that damaged, but did not hurt. It grated against his sanity, and gnawed at his fragile conviction that she did not love him.

He realized a tragedy then. He _believed_ her words before. He believed Arya's words when she pushed him away, and forced his promise.

The language bound him so he could not bear to believe anything else. His name also changed; his true name. He could not bear to recite it now, the words that would so harshly proclaim his cowardice, his shame, and his promise. _Slayer, broken, soul, shame-bringer, runner, the one who rides from his mangled, heartless promise._

The words were not exact, but enough of them flashed through his mind in both his home tongue, and the ancient language to force him to his knees with their conviction, their undeniable truth.

It was impossible for him to change his name now. He needed one catalyst to begin the process, and he didn't have faith that it would be granted, even though it… she… was here. For her to love him… it would shatter everything he had known for the last thirty years.

He felt dry pricking in his eyes with the realization, one that he'd had many times before, that he would never re-emerge from his cowardly shell, to go boldly after what he wanted, to ask for Arya's hand, if he could.

He was terrified, even, to perform such a task as bathing another, especially when the other's body temperature required it. He was sore afraid, and he hated himself for it.

He grit his teeth as he lifted Arya this time; forcing his nerves and fear aside, and noticed Saphira's downcast head and eyes. She felt so wholly guilty, and at fault for his feelings, for accepting to steal him away when his pain was growing every minute of every day. He could feel her, through their bond, their profound connection. He stopped to say something, _anything_, but the large sapphire head shook once, side to side.

She didn't want to hear it. She wanted to suffer for the decision to agree and give in to his pain so many years ago.

He hesitated a moment, then nodded, continuing on to the bathing room.

He carefully, but without hesitation, stripped her sweated, bloody clothing from her bloody, ragged body. It was long work to manipulate her limp form through the right holes, but as soon as she was bare, he immersed her in the slightly warm water.

He washed her, quickly, and efficiently. The magic preventing him form making the task a romantic, loving gesture, or even a caring, friendly endeavor. So his movements were quick, yet gentle; smooth, yet denoting an inner desire, a want for his hands to linger longer than he knew would be acceptable.

He never would betray Arya's trust like that, but he didn't have a choice. With out the magic, he would have had to make the decision to ignore the desire, but now, the magic decided for him.

So when he finished, he just sat next to Arya's body, propping her head above the water as he whispered the words to warm the bath by small degrees. He pondered why she would come so far for him. It couldn't be love; he would believe anything but that. So he thought and wondered; trying to put the confounding puzzle together. Time passed, and eventually he was aware of how his arm had gone from white to red, and found that Arya had also made the healthy color change. Somewhere deep in himself; he was slightly _pleased_ that she had become warm again through his actions.

He breathed a sigh of relief, hurriedly lifting her out of the bathing tub, her wet hair and body causing his dry attire to darken in blotches.

It was not cold in the small home, but Eragon did not waste time, and began to towel her down immediately, while drying her black silk curtain of hair with magic that he siphoned sparingly from one of the massively full diamonds on his belt. She was mostly dry, her dark tresses awry around her face, as he set her down, next to the one being he could trust to keep her safe and warm.

Saphira would never admit it, but she had spied on her rider as he washed the scarred, fragile skin of Emerald-Eyes. She could not deny the profound wrongness in his movements that were at war with the gentle, loving gesture of cleaning another. His shoulders were too hard, hunched and angular, the tendons in his neck standing out so far from his neck that she thought for sure the skin would give up and split. His muscles never once unclenched when he washed her. Not once did he relax.

She had believed that she had never seen a more tortured being when she looked into the sunken face of the elf, Arya, and to some extent Arya still was that tortured being, but seeing a man so at war with his own feelings, with his own desires, with his own demons; to see her rider gently manipulate a fragile body with an impassive face, and tensed arms, the arms of a man at war with himself, she wanted to burry her hide, every ounce of shining, sapphire scale, beneath a cover of dirt and rock, so she would not have to face him.

Even as he dried her hair, whispering the words like ones from one lover to another, even as he spoke, his jaw was clenched so furiously that she feared his teeth would break. The contrast between his body and his actions denoted massive, massive restraint, like a starving man in a banquet hall, threatened on pain of death, should he touch any of the food.

It pained her to watch, to observe such devotion behind the thick wall of gramyre's restraint. Then he left the naked, clean, and helpless elf by her side, and went to find coverings for her.

She couldn't watch this anymore-her rider's contrast between action and posture- so she entered deep into the recesses of the Elven mind.

The immediate emptiness of Arya's walking mind did not frighten her as it did for Eragon, and she forged through, entering deeper into the curled up conscious mind that steadily became darker. She stumbled upon a memory, opened like a book, and saw through Arya's eyes what the last day of the war had meant to her.

The freedom of the races, all of them. The avenging of the fallen riders and her father...

and the releasing of her prospective mate.

The unparalleled joy in the memory was tainted by something that left a bad taste in Saphira's mouth, as if this memory had been opened before, and the apprehension of what was to come would surely be the end of her. Saphira watched as Arya embraced a battle haggard, but peacefully contempt, Eragon. The pleasantries they exchanged were so rich with emotion in Arya's eyes, but Saphira had known the truth.

Eragon was a void at that point; his life fractured and bound. Saphira feared for her rider's sanity when his objective was completed and suddenly he had naught to live for. Saphira had felt his gut-wrenching despair when he decapitated Galbatorix, saw the head roll, and realized that he no longer had to fight; when he realized that he didn't need his magic or meticulous and deadly sword skills.

He had gone from valuable-military-asset to unneeded-warior-halfbreed. He didn't factor Arya's feelings or points of view, not after his promise. He knew she did not love him if she would bind him.

So he acted and by some un-godly miracle, he got away with it.

Seconds after he killed the king, he decided. Eragon did not want to live on, hunting down the ones who continued to support their headless king. He wanted peace, and even if he stayed and refused to fight, he would not have that.

So Saphira offered to kidnap him away, him in her talons, to a place so deep in the dark forests, that they would never be found.

She made a good show of it too. Dropping out of the sky as Eragon left Nassuda's tent, and pinning him to the ground with her foreleg before snarling and proclaiming that she would take Eragon 'far-far-away', to a place that could never be found.

And she did.

Now seeing it from such a jubilant and elated point of view, she could almost discern what would happen next. Arya, left to her tent to rest, and clean up, satisfied in conversing with Eragon. Saphira knew this much on her own, but the brilliance of emotion coming from simply seeing Eragon smile in grim satisfaction moved Saphira to tears, because she knew the exact words he was thinking when he had given Arya that small smile.

'She will not miss me when I'm gone.'

Arya bathed, washing the caked gore from her limbs and armor, and fell into a shorter bout of her walking dreams when she had dried and dressed. She had awoken invigorated, with energy to spare, and decided that it would be the time to release Eragon from his promise to her, to make him truly free.

She was only dimly aware of the shocked army as she made her way to the brilliant red of Nasuda's command tent. Nasuda standing outside, her expression a dark petrified mix of horror, shock, and hurt. The camp was dead silent.

A restless crow rustled in the breeze, calling for it's partner.

Saphira heard the voice that made the memory shiver and shake. It was Arya's own inquisitive voice asking where...where Eragon had gone.

It was well known that Nasuda was not given to crying, but seeing the tears now sent a sharp jab of fear into Arya's stomach. _Had something gone wrong? Was Eragon alright? Where was Saphira? Why won't you answer me?_

The tear-filled, yet still authoritive and demanding eyes flashed to her own. The expression in them was baleful, indicative, commanding and accusative. _"Eragon has been taken, by Saphira, into the endless forests of Duweldenvarden. Saphira promised us that we would never see our savior and hero again."_

Arya's legs went numb, flexible as training bows, but she didn't understand the context, the words just didn't make sense. _"Saphira assured us that his mental abilities were failing."_

Nasuda had pronounced each word, hard and quick, striking fast like throwing knives. Arya's world had just faded about the edges.

Nasuda's glare suddenly cut into Arya's skin. _"She told me specifically to tell you not to follow."_

A curious ringing filled Arya's ears, and her body felt as if it were being drawn with cords that would never break. Her body, while numb, coursed with a pulsating, sharp and blunt pain.

Too late...

Too late...

The memory cut off then, and inside, deeper in the mind, a pitiful wail sounded. _I failed..._

The mental voice of Arya echoed deep in the endless space. _I'm dead and alone. I have failed..._

Saphira's scales ruffled again, frightened by the conviction and acceptance of those words. Arya believed she was dead.

Eragon... my love... forgive me... I wish I had been stronger... I wish I never bound you with my venomous words... I wish I hadn't become complacent with your chained emotions... This is all my doing...

The words...for her rider; Saphira was unprepared for the coursing of power, of _passion_, as she leaned down and touched the end of her snout to the head of the weary elf.

There was no change, only a simple jolt as Saphira's energy entered Arya. The fragile elf's back arched, her face stretched in a silent scream before she slumped back to the ground, and her skin flushed a heated red. Inside her body, Arya had entered into a slumber- a deep sleep that wiped away her unconscious brooding, and allowed her body to begin to heal on it's own.

Eragon didn't know, of course; so when he came bumbling in with Arya's change of clothes, Saphira hissed at him something awful. He noticed how Saphira had curled around the hollowed and gaunt female. It was protective, defensive. Saphira did not look at him, however, and she had also walled her mind, keeping him out effectively. The room was silent for a moment before he pressed on, with more silence than before.

He knelt next to one of Saphira's massive forelegs, and felt a stutter of breath as he cautiously ran his fingers over the brilliant scales. She still did not look at him, as he moved closer to Arya.

He carefully shrugged her out from Saphira's embrace. Her skin still remained a blotchy red, and he pinned it on Saphira's natural body heat.

Dressing her was as before, when he was bathing her. He did so gently, but with purpose.

The pants were much too large; an event he was well prepared for, as he fished a bit of thin rope from his tunic and secured her lower garments with a knot tight enought to cinch the waist of the leggings to her, much more dainty, feminine hips.

His shirt was a smaller affair, and it fit much better than the pants; it was the shrunken results of his first attempt at washing clothes. He was amused that his first impulse for keeping it was purely for sentimental value. It was now a blessing of nigh on thirty years.

He did up the ties on the front of her shirt, knotting them twice at the top, so the small ball of rawhide lacing nestled in the hollow of Arya's throat. His first intimate gesture appeared then; as he trailed his fingers gently from her temple to her jaw. His muscles fought as he performed the same action again, submitting to their ethereal bindings.

Saphira watched Eragon as he dressed Arya, the rigidity of his body did not slacken at all, but his body seemed to ripple as he stroked Arya's cheek once, then twice. He was incapable of performing the action a third time, and she couldn't do anything about it but wait.

Eragon lifted Arya, noting that she felt somewhat more substantial, but still fragile. Silk skin over glass bones. He placed her on his own bed, and simply watched her, feeling forbidden love behind his emotional bindings. He could feel it there, but he couldn't experience it. It was not for him.

He was supposed to leave her be anyway; so he did. He stole out the front door without so much as a second glance, fleeing deep into the forest to come to terms with himself. Saphira hurriedly followed him, after casting a hesitant glance to Arya.

The house was silent.

Time passed.

Eventually the light of day caused the elf to stir, and awaken with a start. She was confused, scared even. Was this the end? Was this her inheritance from her life before. She was so sure she was dead until she saw a mirror image of herself across the room.

The fairth was the second one of her she'd ever seen, but it seemed dimmed, incomplete. She studied it, wondering why, and then she realized.

There was no feeling in the picture. The romantic perfection she had seen in Eragon's ill-fated attempt was gone. She traced the ghostly visage, feeling the slight raised ridges of the pigments. Was this fairth a representation of Eragon's feelings?

Eragon! She stumbled back, her disbelief mixing with a cold dread in her belly. The fairth was surely proof of his existence in this home. How had she come to be here? She could remember nothing but pain, and noise. She knew this must be Eragon's abode...but why couldn't she hear anything? Where were the sounds of footsteps...and claws? She walked around quietly, hesitantly, searching eagerly for anything that would denounce the presence of a rider, or a dragon. It chilled her to find a very large bed in the front of the house, obviously meant for a dragon, empty; and when she felt it, cold.

"Eragon?" She called quietly, straining her pointed ears, and sharpened senses for any sound, any at all.

There was none. The silence mocked her, taunting her with it's possibilities. _He's gone_. _He left you again._

She desperately fought that solid conviction that made sense. She was told not to follow, and she did. Eragon left again because of it.

She could feel it again; the cold steel bluntly mutilating her from the inside. She came for him, and he didn't stay. It was worse than his rejection. That he didn't want to see her was answer enough. Her body, like a marionette puppet without a master, slumped foreword, leaving her sitting in the space between her calves. _My hope was all for naught, then._

Her want to discontinue her own existence was so much worse now than the attempt she had made twenty-five years past.

Eragon had fulfilled the one promise that she never wanted him to keep, and kept all his other promises just as well.

She was convicted and sentenced now, by her forced promise. She would die on behalf of her own selfless choices and ideals. Thirty years of chasing lead to this final ordeal, and she couldn't believe it was to end this way. It felt so horribly selfish to consider suicide now, when she knew exactly what she would be leaving behind, but selfish felt good. It was the only thing she had left.


	6. Chapter 6, Time to Think

Her legs were unsteady when she rose, seeking an instrument suitable to bring about her demise when she spotted it. Brisingr, it's long glossy scabbard gleaming in the dimmed window light called to her. The blade concealed within the innocent covering promised a quick end. It was hung reverently on a display, just beside the fireplace. The sword that killed a king.

Her hands, unsteady and shaking as they were, grasped the smooth lacquered wood and lifted it from it's place of privilege.

She tugged the handle solidly and the glossy, well kempt scabbard gave birth to death incarnate. The shimmering blue of the brightsteel blade sent a shiver down her spine. This was the edge that ended the war. An instrument of peace; of death.

The blade sat heavily in her hand, whispering sweet nothings to her; making promises that it could always keep. She touched the edge of the blade to her finger, testing it's sharpness. The blue metal dug straight into bone, and Arya wrenched it away, wincing. Blood, red and thick, welled out of the cut at an alarming pace. The pain was minimal, comparable to a razor cut. Whispering two words, she mended the flesh of her finger.

She considered Eragon, how he had left Brisingr behind; his beloved sword. He would surely come back for it.

Brisingr suddenly became the object of her salvation rather than the object of her demise. He would come back. He would-

The latch of the front door gave a curious rattle and swung open, allowing a gust of storm brewed air to saturate the dwelling. Footsteps, sharp, but wet; made their way inside, and she hugged the blade to her chest, determined to protect it from the intruder.

He was elven in appearance… but far too muscular, and his face was drawn, haggard, covered in a dark, short beard. His shoulders were slumped down, giving him an aura of defeat. He kicked the door closed behind him; a gesture of intimacy with this dwelling. Her heart lurching into her throat, and she gave a wild gasp. It could not be.

This broken man could not be the Eragon she knew. Eragon hadn't looked towards her gasp, but instead, his head turned in the other direction, towards the bed she had woken in, and ultimately left.

Just as he turned his head, the wall directly across from her shimmered slightly, before a massive, scaled foreleg entered, followed by it's twin, as the head of Saphira emerged from the ethereal barrier.

Eragon

The frigid air outside was a welcome distraction from the sheer audacity of what had just transpired; of what he'd just learned. In the home, so close to Arya; he'd been unable to properly sort things out; dancing from emotion to bondage and entrapment. He couldn't remember the feel of Arya's skin when he hesitantly and gently touched her face.

He staggered at the thought that he had _touched_ her; Arya the elven princess. He _felt_ the texture of her skin on the back of his hands; his fingers. The sensation was unbelievable; almost as if he'd found a way to blind-side his oath and love freely again.

Of course the moment he thought that was the moment his oath exercised him. His muscles seized, the memory of Arya's skin vanished; and it was only by willpower alone that he was able to stroke her face again. There was no sensation of touch the second time.

He wondered why she came. He couldn't rationally believe the explanation she had given in her unconscious musings. But why would she come all this way, endure such horrid injuries, to conceal her purpose? He couldn't fathom her reasons, and even if he could, his oath would always be there, picking his brain.

Saphira was uncharacteristically quiet. Her wing extended slightly, shielding him from the rain. _Saphira? _He asked, brushing her mental fortress.

The dragon shivered, her muscles rapidly clenching and unclenching; as if a castle had been laid across her back. He could feel a terrible mental weight coming from Saphira, cracking her mental shield from the inside. He violently thrust himself into her thoughts and finally saw why Saphira had kept her silence.

His oath locked his limbs as he saw a scene from Arya's mind that should never have passed into his own.

She had lied? All her rejections; he logical evasions, lies? Everything in his existence for the last thirty years was suddenly stripped bare with no structure to support itself. His legs failed to support him, and he collapsed on his knees; the memory bleeding out of Saphira in thick pulsing gushes. Seeing the love, the light that had shone from Arya's being, when he knew of the absolute darkness that existed inside his own-on that day-his birthday-drove him numb with agony that he couldn't feel.

For the first time in thirty years he was glad for his oath. It was a selfish and cowardly gladness; for he didn't need to face the emotions that would surely grind him to nothing.

He knew it was only temporary now though; seeing as Arya had come for him, and he was suddenly afraid of himself. He didn't want to release the oath that had kept him in hiding for so many years. He didn't want to free himself, and he hated himself for it.

He wanted to be that seventeenth-year-child he had been when he was bound and had executed his reason for life.

It was horribly, horribly selfish, but he couldn't bring himself to regret it; and what had happened so many times before happened again.

A new word was added to his name, and he knew exactly what it was, and why it was there. He wouldn't let Arya rescind his oath, and bid him free; not yet.

He wouldn't be able to bear the situation if she released him now. Everything at once would crush him.

He _knew_ it would crush him, just like the deaths of his fathers had crushed him.

**_Saphira_**

The frosted torrents of rain pelted my wings as Eragon turned on his heel and began to trudge slowly home. The soaked twigs and ground stuck to his boots as his weary legs supported his meager weight. He was far more tired than he let on.

He wouldn't admit it to anyone though, not even himself. I could hear the bones in his legs creaking from the stress. How he labored in his breathing. He would need sleep very soon.

He stumbled on a root, not unlike the one Arya was found in, and in a flash my tail was supporting him, wrapping around his waist in a fluid action. His mind rang with surprise, and gratitude quickly followed. When he tried to voice it; he choked on his flayed throat, the sharpness of the pain causing him to grab at his neck and gasp.

I could do nothing. My own mind had spilled truth on his wounded soul; I had been powerless when he learned of the memory. He wasn't angry. He didn't react at all

He was never angry any more.

The only hate he carried was against himself.

Only the gods know when he smiled last. My body, and all of it's power were worth nothing now. I couldn't hug him like one of his own species, or offer vocalized comfort. I was useless now as everything I should have been. My shoulders sagged under this conviction that Eragon had long since come to accept. I was the only dragon in this world; and I could do no good for my rider or my race.

Icy grief poured into my veins, and I forced my wounded voice to whimper; to create a human noise of grief. Eragon heard it, and saw my open mind. He breathed in to speak, and choked out the words in a feeble volume. "Not useless."

It was his first and last words that day; speaking with such a raw throat did not occur often, and the pain I could feel in him after was warning enough. I curled my tail slightly, giving him a gentle squeeze. No matter how low he was feeling; he still did his best to comfort others.

I greatly admired that trait; and I knew it would never change. I could feel his weary legs, and scared throat just as well as he could. He wished for sleep.

Home is not far little one.

I urged him onward, _I'll drag you if you start sleeping here._

He didn't voice his protests, but he imagined himself trimming my talons with his Fire-Elf-Sword. I rumbled in mirth. My rider was above such petty acts, but my, he had quite the imagination.

He imagined me waking to find that my talons had been trimmed to half their length. I snorted; I would lick him head to toe if I did.


	7. Chapter 7, Unworthy

_**I swear, I hate the time that school robs from me. It's insanity that I've gone this long without posting. I honestly think I'm a pioneer in this kind of story type with these characters; and it's absolutely awesome. Angst... trust me, when the storm is over, you'll see why i've devoted twenty (plus) pages to tormenting these two, and it'll all be worth it.**_

_**And so, without further prattle from me, I present chapter seven.**_

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><p><em><strong>Eragon<strong>_

My legs burned as Saphira's tail uncurled from my waist, the divine support gone. I had been awake for nearly two straight days; and now every minute that passed without allowing me into the bliss of sleep added a painful, physical weight to both my body, and my eyelids.

When Saphira's wing withdrew, I started moving again. The rain in these parts was dreadful; and if the wind was blowing, it could very well bring death. I was drenched in moments.

My limp grasp found purchase on the door latch after tromping through the mud and bracken that lead to my doorway. Saphira's entrance to the house was around the side, and was not unlike the doorway to the Razak's lair in Helgrind. It was warded against weather and the wild beasts that had a tenancy to cross through my cleared area, searching for food or otherwise.

I pushed the door open and stumbled slightly, catching the door before it could swing back and break my nose. I kicked it solidly, the metal latch finding its home, and the stormy weather was once again condemned to the outside. My home had taken a new smell; a pleasant one. Pine resin seemed to have been dusted on my floors and walls; creating a very light trail that lead to my bed. I followed the smell farther inside, and discovered my empty bed.

There was a wild moment where I thought that it had all been a crazy dream; that Arya couldn't have possibly found Saphira and I here.

A sharp, sudden intake of breath dashed that moment. My tight shoulders relaxed, my pinched muscles slackened, and the aches and pains of my over-extended body dulled into distant throbs. Arya _was_ here, and she was _safe_. My promise had no bounds on my concerns for her safety and presence. For that, I was glad.

Saphira emerged from the warded wall, her massive foreleg disturbing the mirage of the fireplace, followed by her shimmering blue muzzle and opposite leg. Another shimmer of blue caught my attention and I saw her.

Arya, pale as winter snow, was curled up in the corner of the room. Her lithe arms were bound around Brisingr's exposed blade, as if she would die if she released it. Her eyes were wide and frightened; their vibrant, grassy color standing in sharp contrast to her colorless complexion.

She looked even more frail now that she had woken. The hollows in her cheeks seemed to have deepened. Just as with Saphira, I tried to speak, and my throat burst into fire.

_**Arya**_

Blood struck the ground when he coughed; staining the smooth wooden floor. My body chilled. I had never seen an illness that made a man cough blood. Nothing less than a fatal wound to the chest or stomach would cause such internal damage.

I had already stood, and began to approach him when a scaled rope lashed around my waist. I struggled, and felt the need to touch him; to know beyond a doubt that he was there; _to heal him._ The restraint held fast, and I struggled more violently. I could hardly believe my eyes; that he was there.

Then Eragon looked at me; and my struggles ceased.

Those eyes could not be his.

My chest shuddered, threatening to crack and obliterate me.

Those tired, beaten, weary eyes could not be his.

They moaned of defeat; of submission; crying with a condemning voice more potent than spoken words. They sealed my oath with a brand hotter than the fires of the burning planes; and I saw the scars that had marred his soul, dissolved his will, and broken his mind.

My oath, the one I bound him with… caused this? A simple denial to pursue my hand had done this?

His eyes suddenly softened towards me, my world cracked, and my chest heaved and divided asunder. The oppressive guilt and the condemning fire of his wounded spirit was far too much. My knees gave out, the tip of Brisingr gouging the floor as I slumped sitting between my calves, and I wept. I wanted justice taken against me; some form of retribution for the fire I'd put him through, for his love that I had disregarded.

I didn't deserve the softness of his gaze, the healings of his fingers, or even the warmth of his home; and yet he had given it all to me. He had even _bathed_ me, I realized; and gifted me his own clothing. Even bound by my black oath, he still performed such tender, _intimate_ actions.

He did it for me.

I suddenly felt violently ill. This pure creature offered me everything, and I poisoned him for it in return. I was a witch; a conjuror of black magic that injured the innocent and defiled the pure.

I wanted to vomit; to expel my newly found conviction.

I was a torturer; a malicious, sadistic creature.

I was no better than Durza.

Eragon

I was petrified when Arya stopped thrashing after looking into my eyes. Desperation, wild need, and primal resistance, reflected in her vibrant green eyes. I couldn't help it. There were still some things my oath couldn't change and my face, in her simple gaze, lost it's hardened expression.

Brisinger clattered to the ground, and a desperate, bitter wail sounded from Arya as her legs crumpled under her, and her face folded into her hands.

"Forgive me, Shadeslayer," she moaned between terrible sobs, "Forgive me for the wrong I've done. Please; torture me, slay me if you will, but don't treat me with the kindness I don't deserve. I'm not worthy of your kindness."

There was a mournful choke in her weeping, "I am not worthy of you."

There was a sharp pull inside me; so close to the compassion I wanted to feel, and I walked to where Saphira's tail was still lashed around Arya. I stooped down and grasped Brisingr's hilt, lifting it from the ground.

Arya didn't look up, but she hunched her shoulders over, extending her neck like a prisoner at a chopping block.

I resisted the urge to weep; brushing past Saphira, who gazed at me with solemn eyes, to Brisingr's scabbard, and in a smooth movement, concealed its blade once more; placing it back in its proper resting place.

Saphira kept silent in mind, and in body.

I walked back to Arya, her neck still extended, waiting for an executioner's blow; her chest still heaving in broken sobs.

I was afraid of her, of facing her rejection once more; but seeing this depth of emotional torment was harrowing.

I recognized my madness, as my compassion railed against the impervious doors of my bond.

My oath leached my strength away as I knelt directly before her, and reached for her with arms that fought to contract. My fingers gently eased her own away from her face. My oath vexed me then and fought me desperately as I cradled Arya's crumpled face with my left hand, and stroked her hair with my right. My compassion for her kept my bond from seizing my limbs, and the _something_ that I could somehow sense behind the tall walls of my binding oath increased in strength.

She lunged for me, her grasping fingers just as desperate as her eyes had been. My oath all but erased her physical presence. Her smell, her touch, her desperate heart-wrenching sobs vanished as she pressed her face into my chest.

I bent my arms like iron around her, as gently as I could manage. I couldn't feel her hair, even as my bound body's hand was buried in her dark tresses.

My eyes could not forsake her.

A sharp tingle brushed the inside of my neck, and the abrasive air stopped scraping it's way down my throat. I swallowed and there was no pain.

Arya had healed me.

Even after I up and disappeared, she still found the will and desire to bring me comfort; when for the last thirty years I had caused her nothing but pain and despair?

She loves me, I realized.

She came from across the world to find _me_. She came to release _me_, on that cursed day. She wanted _me_, despite our differences.

Saphira became my ears, opening up the sound of Arya's weeping voice frantically grinding out line after line of the Ancient Language. It took me a moment to realize that she was praying.

She prayed to fate, to any deity that would hear her pleas. There were words I couldn't understand, though many of them evoked deep sadness; a heart-wrenching sorrow. Eventually I understood what she was asking for, what each sentence begged for.

She had no faith in her survival today. She belived I would slay her, or that fate would cast her away from me once more. Not only that, but she believed she deserved death; so she asked that when; when, not if, she died today, that I would find her in the void when my life ran dry.

"You will not die today Arya," I whispered, waiting for my throat to spasm and contract in pain.

It never came, and through Saphira's ears I heard her frantic prayer succumb to her immortal grief. She only whispered one more line; the very one I had intended to keep her from blessing me with. I felt my muscles frantically constrict before she finished, but her words were too quick, and my oath, confounded by compassion, seized my limbs and would not allow me to move.

I was too late.

My world dissolved in a spate of agony. My soul burned with dragon fire. The pain overwhelmed my unprepared and weakened mind; and incoherent of my surroundings, I was wrenched violently deep into the black well of unconsciousness.


	8. Chapter 8, Darkest Before the Dawn

_The pain overwhelmed my unprepared and weakened mind; and incoherent of my surroundings, I was wrenched violently deep into the black well of unconsciousness._

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><p>Saphira screeched, her tail immediately dropping from Arya's waist, as Eragon body violently recoiled.<p>

He gave a shuddering whimper, his head rolling back. His body followed the motion, and Arya, in her weakened state, was pulled over and onto him.

She was immediately horrified by his reaction.

Eragon's body arched, his belly and chest rising so high that Arya was dumped off his body and onto the floor. Arya's mind raced for the words that would stop his pain, before a tormented, gurgling howl broke free from Eragon's chest. Horror consumed her, for she knew that sound; that very cry.

It was the sound her broken soul had made when she had discovered that Eragon had fled. His body rose another inch and the howl became a dead-man's wail.

Saphira only whimpered and growled, her body prostrate; claws digging furrows into the floor.

Arya frantically grabbed at him, feeling his locked muscles like bulbs of iron under his linen shirt. His skin had gone feverishly warm, taught as stressed wire, and yet turned pale as death. Sweat poured off him in waves, and for the first time in her long life, Arya could not remember the words that would calm him. The language she had been born and raised with would not come to her.

A shattering crack resounded in Eragon's body and all at once, the cry cut off into a broken sigh, and he collapsed onto the floor.

The sound terrified Arya. She cradled his body as she pressed her ear to his chest. The relief was immediate. Inside his chest, air still whistled, and a beat, more solid and final than any other she had known, resounded.

He was still alive.

His breathing hitched and he wretched, turning over, vomiting ink black, and in an instant, shattered Arya's small peace of mind. The viscous liquid dark poured out of his mouth in great sopping torrents, and even though his body was still, Saphira still writhed, her breathing labored, keening in pain.

Eragon moaned a small, pitiful groan, and coughed, choking on the liquid that infested his body.

Arya held his hair away from his face, her Elven fingers shaking. She had never been witness to such a horrid purging of the body. Oh, she had seen her fair share of bloodshed. Gore, and blood had been a regular commodity in the war, she had even been coated in it. Blood didn't phase her at all.

In all her time as an Elf, though, she had never seen any being bleed black; nor vomit, nor sweat. Neither in her very long life had she heard, or read, of any sickness that could cause it.

Eragon wretched again, and the inky puddle grew wider. Arya lifted Eragon's head onto her lap; her entire body shivering with dread. She couldn't lose him now. Not like this, not by her own doing. Not by the _one good deed _she had preformed to make things right.

Eragon's skin had gone whiter than the finest Elven silk, and it seemed that in only a few mere moments, he had aged a century.

In a moment of wild desperation, she prodded his mind, wary of any backlash that could occur, and was hopelessly sucked into his thirty-two years of darkness.

She saw herself, years younger, years brighter, splattered with gore, and smiling.

It was the day they had won the war, and she saw herself as she laughed, relaxed and carefree.

And she heard the memories of Eragon's thoughts inside her head; his mutilated soul forcing him to laugh, to banter, and behind it all was a single belief. Just a single core belief that he had accepted long before Galbatorix fell to his blade.

He could not be loved.

It was an irrational belief, but it surrounded him and taunted him daily. His cousin, Roran, he knew loved him dearly, and Nassuda as a skilled commander and dear friend. Arya couldn't find herself there, listed in his mind as one who loved him and her heart withered inside her chest.

Eragon loved her more than life itself, she saw; and as more and more of his friends were taken by the war, the more he began to rely on it. It was an anchor, for him, to this life. He was captivated with her wisdom and Elven beauty, the vastness of her mind, even.

Her words stripped Eragon of his anchor; his promise stripped him of hope for her love.

And she watched herself receive the grim, small smile she knew so well, and the dull echo of his thoughts reached her ears.

"_She will not miss me when I'm gone."_

She had been too convincing, and too lax. She was complacent with the façade Eragon had paraded, and it broke only hours after the end of the war. He broke while she had been sleeping.

Through his eyes, she did not notice her own absence, as he was taken from the camp, and Saphira's ferocious, venomous words burned under her skin.

"_If the she-elf inquires of my rider's whereabouts, tell her that he is gone, that he shall never return, and tell her that she is not to follow us."_

She saw as he was wrenched into the sky in Saphira's talons, and as the world disappeared, she could hear his thoughts almost set in sync with Saphira's massive down strokes. _I'm free…I'm free…I'm… finally… free…_

She felt his body as it hung limp in Saphira's claws, and felt his overwhelming relief.

He was free of everything, even _her_.

His freedom was short lived, however. His fear of being found, especially by _her,_ kept him from ever straying too far into the forests of Duweldenvarden. His friends were gone, kept away by the woven unbreakable words that bound his mind and body.

The monotony crept upon him until his birthday came. The dark memories of struggling against the empire and his new self-made prison overwhelmed him, driving him to cry, wretch in disgust, and sink in despair. Arya finally saw her beacon, her line that drew her year after year. The mourning pair that sang the sallow song of loss and sadness on the day that was celebrated to be the birth of a new Alagaësia. The day had always been held as one bitter sweet day of remembrance, and for _her_, a day of vicious remorse and total defeat.

Eragon shifted, a bone-weary sigh slipping through his lips. His eyes and cheeks, every part of his body had thinned. His skin was frighteningly cool. The black ink on the floor came together in inky puddles that coagulated and in an instant froze into black patches. Arya was tensed, prepared for another onslaught.

None came. Eragon laid still, breathing shallowly, and shifting weakly away from the frozen black pool around him. Saphira's body slid weakly to the floor. A weak whimper passed her maw, and all was still.

_Arya._

Her own name echoed in her mind.

_Arya, oh Arya._

The words were caressed, in her mind, gentle and loving. She shifted Eragon's head on her lap, turning his haggard face up towards her own. "Eragon?"

There was a small hitch in his shallow breath. _You came._

Tears, warm with relief, fell from Arya's eyes. "Yes, Eragon. I have come, and I will stay."

A shudder ran through Eragon's body. _I always knew you would come. You came and freed me._

Her willowy fingers ran through Eragon's hair. _I was wrong. It was evil of me to do such a thing to you. Durza would have been proud._

"No."

Eragon's eyes stared up at the ceiling, the one word that passed his lips disappearing from the air. She felt the muscles in his neck bunch, and his body re-animated itself. He gasped, his body arching into the air with the need to breathe.

His eyes roamed around until he found her own. An emaciated arm reached up and a thin hand stroked her elven cheek, tracing her nose, eyes, and lips. "There are lines in you face I don't recognize. Pray tell how you got them?" Humor was in his voice, and the light twinkle had returned to his eyes.

Arya's hands desperately lifted Eragon's face to her own, and they kissed. One of Eragon's thin hands secured itself around the elven princess's neck and the kiss deepened. They spoke without words; apologizing, promising, proclaiming, and silently shouting as they were consumed by the fulfilled desire for the freedom and ability to love and be loved.

Eragon had come to terms with his feelings, now unhindered by magic, with astounding clarity. When Arya broke the kiss, with long due tears of joy, and laid her forehead against his, he promised her his heart and soul, and all of the years of his very long life with a handful of words in the common tongue. "I love you, Arya Drottningu."

* * *

><p><em>And so ends a tale, perhaps my longest to be finished. I am sorry I took so long; I had... prior engagements to attend to. (Public highschool is obviously to blame)<br>Now that I have found the end to this dizzyingly heartbreaking tale, I feel the want to write the prequel to this, so it may make more sense to those coming into this with such a feeling of... confusion. I, however, cannot trust myself with this decision, so I will leave it to you all; my wonderfull readers, and reviewers. Do you want the first half?_


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